


Listen to the Rain

by coffeejunkii



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Implied Past Abuse, M/M, New York City, Panic Attacks, Phil Needs a Hug, Tony Secretly Takes Care of Everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeejunkii/pseuds/coffeejunkii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil can't fathom why Clint would panic on the subway. He's never shown any reaction to crowds, moving vehicles, or confined spaces.</p><p>It's the universe once again firmly telling them that their lives aren't normal, no matter how much Phil might wish for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen to the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Rurounihime for betaing and brainstorming <3

Phil almost feels normal. It's Friday evening, he's on the subway with his gorgeous boyfriend, and the only thing he has to worry about tonight is how much free champagne he can tolerate before he can't keep his hands off of Clint any longer. Just a normal night out, in other words, courtesy of Tony, who had pressed the invitation to the opening of the Civil War exhibit at the Met into Phil's hands with stern declarations of “I hate these things” and “You and Clint need to learn that 'date night' doesn't mean 'outscoring each other on the shooting range.'” Tony had had a point, and Clint had looked excited when Phil told him about the invitation, even though he had steadfastly refused to wear a suit (a pity considering that Phil knew from various undercover missions how incredible Clint could look in a suit).

So here they are, headed uptown on the 4, two quick stops away from 86th. Phil ignores that he and Clint scanned the entire car upon entering and chose seats at one end, close to both the connecting door to the next car and to one of the exits (it's habit, so ingrained that both of them are barely aware of doing it). Clint's chattering at him about the new arrows he's working on with Tony (SHIELD R&D is going to have a fit. Again.), clearly happy with the developments if his gesturing is anything to go by. Phil isn't really paying much attention to what he's saying, allowing himself to watch Clint's hands, and perhaps also his arms and shoulders because of course he's rolled up his shirt to the elbows, which only underlines that the dark button-down fits snugly in all the right places. Phil smiles back at Clint, for once not caring that he probably looks utterly besotted, which he is, but doesn't usually need the world to know. Phil's trying for normal, and normal couples are better at showing they care about each other than he and Clint are at times (“emotionally stunted,” in Natasha's words). 

They've just pulled away from the 59th Street stop when the overhead speakers crackle. Clint falls silent and Phil straightens up, instantly alert.

 _Due to a broken down car near 86th, this train won't make any more stops until 125th Street._ The entire car groans in frustration, and the woman next to Phil mutters “Fucking MTA” under her breath.

_After 125th Street, this train resumes regular express stops. To reach 86th from 125th, take the downtown 4, 5, or 6. Connections also available to..._

Phil has a quip about “at least it's not Doombots this time” on his lips, but when he turns to Clint, he sees that Clint's hands have curled into fists and that he's staring at a fixed point on the floor.

“Everything okay?” Phil asks.

The train picks up speed, wheels squeaking as it rattles along the express track.

“Fine,” Clint bites out.

Phil takes another look at Clint. He's tense, his breathing faster than it should be, and he most certainly is not fine. “You don't—did you notice anything?”

Clint's eyes dart around the car. “No. How long till 125th?”

“Ten minutes,” Phil replies slowly.

Clint nods. His eyes are still on the floor. Phil watches as he slowly uncurls his fingers. They lie flat against his thighs for a moment before they start shaking. Phil almost reaches out, but hesitates too long, and Clint's hands clasp together tightly, twisting and turning.

The train leans to the right for a moment, wheels squeaking, and Phil is shifted around in his seat. He forces himself to look at Clint the way he would if any of his agents were in distress. Catalog the signs. Deduce a possible cause. Take action to alleviate the discomfort. 

Once Phil starts taking stock of Clint's behavior—the tension in his body, the shortness of breath, the clipped answers—Phil realizes that he has seen this before. Of course he has. He's had to talk more than one junior agent down from the onset of a panic attack during a mission, but he's never seen these signs in Clint.

Phil can't fathom why Clint would panic on the subway. He's never shown any reaction to crowds, moving vehicles, or confined spaces. Clint has triggers (they both have), but they are all more intimate in nature. Much more intimate. He's been with Clint for almost five years, and there are still moments when—

No. Phil pushes these thoughts away. He doesn't need the anger that comes with remembering who and what caused Clint's triggers. He needs to focus on the here and now. He has to find a way to get Clint through this.

The 77th Street station flies past. 

Phil allows his training to take over and addresses Clint the way he would in the field. He pitches his voice low but firm, the way he's done a thousand times before. “You are in no immediate danger. We are eight, maximum ten minutes out from the station where we will get off this train. Focus on my voice. Take a deep breath and hold it for two seconds. I will count for you. Breathe in—”

He waits for Clint to follow his instructions, but he doesn't. Clint's breathing remains shallow and fast, and Phil can feel the stiffness in Clint's body where their thighs touch. Phil starts repeating what he's just said, but he stops when Clint makes a pained sound. Out of the corner of his eyes, Phil sees the man sitting across from them look up from his iPad before going back to his screen with the practiced indifference of an experienced subway rider.

Phil turns more fully toward Clint and slides his arm along the back of the bench. He's not quite touching Clint, but it's an offer. They're not big on PDA; it has nothing to do with wanting to keep their relationship secret (they're as out as you can be, really) but more with the fact that they're usually working when they're in public, and when they are on the job, their mission overrides everything else. 

Clint doesn't react to Phil having moved closer, but he's also not worse. 

“Clint,” Phil calls out softly. This is the voice he uses when it's just the two of them, and perhaps he's imagining it, but he thinks he sees the slightest turn of Clint's head toward him. “You're alright. We're both alright. We'll be off this train soon.”

The 86th Street station comes into view and slides away just as quickly.

He carefully places his hand low on Clint's back. It feels unyielding, like touching a brick wall. He's touched Clint before when he was tense. Just the other week Clint needed to take a shot from a bridge with winds whipping so strongly around them that he couldn't find secure footing. Phil remembers the coiled strength he'd felt under his fingers as he'd steadied Clint; power ready to be unleashed in a microsecond. This is utterly different. This is a body that has pulled itself tightly together out of fear.

Phil leans a little closer. “You're alright,” he repeats. “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.” It pains Phil to say this, months after he's come back, but he knows that abandonment is one of Clint's deepest fears, and the events of last summer didn't help that in the least. Phil figures it's worth a shot; it's one thing that could trigger such a strong onset of panic in Clint. 

Clint leans toward Phil. He's still staring at the floor, and his hands are still clenched tight, but it's something. Phil slides his arm all the way across Clint's back so he can gather him into a loose hold. 

96th Street. The only thing Phil cares about is getting Clint off this train without him passing out. 

“Clint?” 

Blue eyes flicker at Phil. It's a relief to know that Clint seems to be aware of Phil's voice, at least. 

“I want you to try to take a deep breath again. It'll make you feel better. Okay? On three. One—two—three—”

Clint sucks in a big gulp of air. He ends up coughing, which only makes it harder to breathe and sends him into a deeper spiral, trying to get air into his lungs. His hand shoots out, grasps blindly for Phil's suit jacket. Clint's entire body shudders, his knee knocking into Phil's thigh.

Phil's heart jumps in his chest, a quick, painful burst. Fuck. _Fuck_. He can't let Clint fall into a full-out seizure, and it sure looks as if he's right on the brink of it. 

“Clint—” Phil's throat closes up. He swallows and forces more words out. “Look at me.” Wide eyes find his own. “You can breathe. You're fine. Just—” _Don't tell him to calm down. He fucking would if he could._ “I'm here. I won't—I won't let anything happen to you.”

Clint keeps looking at him while he chases short breaths that rattle in his throat. Phil holds his gaze and desperately hopes that Clint's training has seeped far enough into muscle memory to keep him upright. 

Another station comes and goes. Slowly, Clint finds his way back to the hastily drawn breaths from before. He lets go of Phil's jacket and his eyes break away from Phil to fall back to the floor.

Phil quickly scans their surroundings—it's habit, especially when one of them is in bad shape—and is relieved to see that nobody is paying any attention to them. Although he has to concede that he wouldn't give a fuck if anyone did. 

He runs his hand up to Clint's neck and down his arms. Muscles and tendons strain up against the palm of his hand. He hopes that Clint can walk off the train without too much trouble. Clint's limbs have locked up as far as Phil can tell, and the continued shallow breathing will leave him lightheaded. Phil tightens his hold on Clint by a fraction. Enough to have Clint lean fully against him, but still loose to make sure Clint doesn't feel crowded. 

It doesn't seem to make a difference.

The train sways along the tracks, pushing them closer together. Phil usually finds the rocking of the subway comforting, but it makes it more difficult to steady Clint. The stretch of tunnel to the next stop feels endless even though Phil knows that it's a short hop. The station comes into view, a flash of bright lights, people milling on the platform waiting for the 5 or 6 to pull up and carry them to their destination. The tunnel swallows them up again.

Phil's hand settles at the back of Clint's neck. The short hair that curls over Clint's collar is soft against Phil's skin and he rubs his thumb back and forth. It's something Clint enjoys, or at least he normally does. It's difficult to tell if it has any effect; Clint might be leaning against him, but it's not a comfortable embrace. Yet Phil can't bring himself to let go. 

They're past 116th Street. Phil's about to tell Clint that they are nearly there, he only has to hold on for another minute when the train begins to slow down. An announcement follows.

_There's another express train currently ahead of us, so we have to wait until that train clears the station. It should only be a few minutes._

Phil barely registers the annoyed but resigned grumbling spreading throughout the car because Clint has started trembling. Shit.

“Shh, it'll be okay,” Phil soothes.

The muscles in Clint's side are taut as Phil's hand runs over them, and his breaths are so short now that he's almost hyperventilating. It's been a while since Phil has felt helpless about a situation, but he doesn't know how to make things better for Clint.

What a fucking stupid idea to take the subway. They should have taken a cab or accepted Tony's offer of a car for the night. But no, Phil had suggested they take the subway like normal New Yorkers and Clint had humored him. The mess they're in right now shouldn't come as a surprise. It's the universe once again firmly telling them that their lives aren't normal, no matter how much Phil might wish for it.

He brings his other hand up to Clint's face, brushes over his cheek and down the side of his neck where he can feel Clint's racing pulse. He tucks himself closer and whispers right in Clint's ear. “Remember this morning? When we woke up? We had some time before getting up and we listened to the rain.” Phil closes his eyes for a moment, willing away what's around him so he can recall Clint's weight against him, the warmth of his skin, and the way their fingers had tangled together. “Remember?”

The most minute nod from Clint encourages Phil to go on. “Good. That's, that's good. I want you to hold on to that. Don't think about anything else. Just that. Just you and me this morning.”

Clint's hand fumbles for his. Phil catches it and holds on even though Clint squeezes it with so much force that it's painful. 

The train finally starts moving again.

***

Phil knows that he will never forget the sight of Clint under the bright lights of the McDonald's at the corner of 125th. Arms wrapped around himself and head bowed, Clint looks frail. It is so utterly unlike him. Even in dubious territory, Clint masters a sure footing, and Phil can count on one hand the occasions when Clint's eyes have dropped away from a scan of his surroundings when in public spaces.

There's a constant stream of cabs rushing past Phil, but they're either occupied or ignore his increasingly desperate waves. Phil is tempted to call in SHIELD emergency transport, but the last thing Clint needs is Medical getting their hands on him. 

By the time a cab finally pulls over, Clint is swaying on his feet.

***

Phil calls JARVIS from the cab to make sure an elevator is waiting for them when they arrive at the Tower's residential entrance. Some color returns to Clint's cheeks during the ride home, and he doesn't seem jittery anymore as he climbs out of the cab.

The elevator doors slide open as soon as they step through the entrance. Phil's finger hovers over the button marked “Roof” and he waits to press it until Clint nods.

The roof looks nothing like what it used to. Instead of empty space and gravel, there are wooden planks winding among groves of towering bamboo, with small seating areas here and there, and a series of small reflecting pools scattered across the roof. It's Tony's doing, of course, and Phil knows that he and Steve spend a lot of time up here. Tonight, the roof is empty, however. Phil hangs back as Clint makes his way over to the west side and its clear view over much of Manhattan.

Certain that Clint is fine, Phil allows his eyes to close. A light breeze blows through the bamboo, its leaves rustling softly. The cool evening air is a nice change from the stale air of the subway. As the wind quiets, Phil can pick up the flow of water as it moves from one pool to the next. He listens for a few more moments, then opens his eyes.

“JARVIS.” He keeps his voice low even though he knows Clint won't be able to hear him from across the roof.

“Yes, Agent Coulson.”

“I'd prefer if no one interrupted Clint and me while we're up here.”

“Of course. Based on current locations and behavior patterns, it seems unlikely that anyone will seek entrance to the roof in the next 2.5 hours. Should anyone approach, I will relay your request.”

Phil smiles. “Thank you, JARVIS.”

“Anytime, Agent Coulson.”

Phil slowly wanders over to where Clint is leaning against the see-through barrier enclosing the roof. He takes care to make noise as he walks, and he can tell by the slight twitch in Clint's shoulders that his approach has been noted. He steps beside Clint and waits. He'll give Clint all the time he needs.

The city is beautiful below them. Points of light draw Phil's gaze here and there, to buildings, cars, streetlights, the haze rising up from Time Square. The Chrysler Building seems close enough to touch. Its elegant lines sweep upward, drawing Phil's eyes toward the sky. Only the brightest of stars are visible over the city's light pollution. Something loosens in Phil's chest and he exhales in a long slow breath that he wasn't aware he was holding in.

Clint turns toward Phil and moves closer until he can push into his arms. It's so very welcome, and Phil wraps him against his body. Cradles him close. Clint fits his face into the space between Phil's shoulder and neck, and Phil's hand slides around Clint's nape to hold him there. There's a lingering stiffness in Clint's muscles that won't disappear soon, but holding Clint is so very different now than it was just an hour ago. His breathing is easy and steady, and he's molded himself to Phil as much as he can. 

“Thank you,” Clint whispers.

“For?”

Clint lifts his head. His nose brushes along Phil's neck, sending a burst of warmth through Phil. It's one of those gestures that Clint makes, perhaps more unconsciously than not, when he feels comforted. 

“For keeping me grounded when I was freaking out.”

Phil presses a kiss to the top of Clint's ear. “Is that what that was?”

“Yeah.” Clint sighs. He pauses before he continues. “Can we—can we, just, sit down? Here? And talk. Talking would be good.”

“Talking's good.” Contrary to what Natasha might think, he and Clint are not emotionally stunted in all aspects. They've learned the value of talking to each other, for example. They learned it the hard and thoroughly uncomfortable way, and they occasionally still suck at communicating, but they manage in a crisis.

Phil steers Clint toward one of the over-sized lounge chairs. “Be right back.” He walks to the barbecue in the corner and pulls a bottle of water out of the adjacent fridge. Phil might occasionally roll his eyes at Tony's insistence on all possible conveniences at all times, but he has to concede that they serve their purpose.

Clint's sitting on the edge of the lounge chair when Phil returns. He accepts the water and drinks about half of it down before holding the bottle out to Phil. Thirst hadn't even registered with Phil, but he drains the rest of the water without pausing. He places the empty bottle on the ground and watches as Clint toes off his shoes before stretching out on the chair. 

A sudden weariness comes over Phil, and he wants nothing more than to lie down next to Clint, close his eyes, and listen to his even breathing. He shrugs off his suit jacket and loosens his tie. He folds both and pushes them to the foot of the chair. It occurs to him that it'll probably get chilly soon—it might be late spring, but nights are still cold—and he suspects that they will be out here for a while longer. There's a trunk next to the chair, and sure enough, there are blankets inside. He unfolds one of them as he steps out of his shoes and finally sits down next to Clint, who tucks the blanket around both of them.

Phil rests his head on Clint's shoulder and finds his hand under the blanket. For a while, all they do is lie still, fingers entwined.

“Are you okay?” Phil asks softly.

“Yeah. Well, still a little woozy, but—yeah.”

“Good.” Phil considers telling Clint that he was terrified, but he suspects that Clint knows. Besides, whatever anxiety Phil felt must have paled in comparison to Clint's fear. “Has this happened before?”

Clint doesn't respond right away, which is already enough of an answer. “Not like this,” he concedes. Whispering, he adds, “It hasn't been this bad.”

 _Jesus Christ_. Phil goes back through his memory, searching for clues that Clint has been having fucking _panic attacks_ , but there is just one vast blank. Partner of the year award, right there. Phil Coulson, screwing up relationships since the beginning of time.

Clint squeezes his hand. “Don't do that.”

“Do what?” Phil asks on this side of curt.

“That. Blaming yourself.”

Phil huffs. Sometimes he hates how well Clint knows him. How well he can read Phil. They developed their non-verbal communication skills first. It's what saves their lives on a regular basis during missions, and they perfected them long before they got together. 

“Should have noticed,” Phil remarks.

“You can't notice everything all the time.” Clint's thumb strokes over the back of Phil's hand. “Not with how crazy our lives are.”

Phil realizes that Clint's trying to give him a way out. “I'm your partner. Of course I should have noticed.”

Clint shifts. A flare of tension goes through him. “Maybe—” he begins and halts. “Maybe I didn't want you to notice.”

That—that's unexpected and it hurts. Phil lifts his head off Clint's shoulder. When Clint tugs his fingers out of the hold Phil has on them, he lets go. Something clenches inside Phil, tight and twisting. God dammit, this isn't what they need right now. It is the exact opposite of what they need. 

“Why didn't you want me to notice?”

Clint sits up. He hunches over his knees, which makes it impossible for Phil to see his face. “Maybe for the same reason that you lie awake next to me at night for hours and never say a word about it.” He doesn't sound angry; he sounds resigned. 

Resignation is far worse than anger. Resignation means that Clint has reconciled himself to the fact that Phil won't reach out to him about this. Which is true, and yet. Yet. Phil had suspected that Clint might know about his rampant insomnia, and perhaps part of him had hoped that Clint would bring it up. 

Perhaps Clint had hoped for the same thing. That Phil might have noticed something was off and would ask Clint about it. God. Phil swipes a hand over his face and desperately tries to think of something to say.

Clint casts a quick glance back toward him. “We're both so fucked up.” His voice wobbles when he adds, “Sometimes I wonder what we're even trying to—”

“Don't,” Phil interrupts without thinking. He pushes himself up so he can sit next to Clint. He'll readily agree that fucked up is an excellent way to describe both of them, but he won't ever let anyone, least of all Clint, question their relationship. “I love you.” The words tumble out of his mouth. “That's what we're doing.”

Clint's breath hitches.

“I'm sorry,” Phil says. “I'm sorry about not telling you that I can barely sleep sometimes. And I'm sorry I didn't notice you aren't okay.”

Clint turns to him. “Wake me up next time?”

“I shouldn't—”

Clint's fingers against his lips stop the flow of words. “Wake me up.”

Phil nods, and Clint kisses him, a fleeting press of lips. Phil keeps Clint close with a hand on his waist and kisses back, light and careful, until Clint's tongue sweeps into his mouth. Phil sighs into the kiss, glad to have Clint this close, to feel his palm against his cheek, strong and sure. Phil loves when Clint kisses him like this, languid but certain, as if they have all the time in the universe (so often, they have too little time for each other). When Clint pulls away, he lingers for a moment and brushes one last kiss against Phil's lips.

They lie back down. Clint drapes himself half over Phil and tangles their legs together. “I'm not good with confined spaces anymore,” he murmurs.

Phil is too stunned to respond. 

Clint lets out a wry laugh. “Yeah. I know. Irony, huh?” 

“When did you notice?” 

“February? Sometime around then.” Clint tucks his head more firmly under Phil's chin.

“Chicago.” 

Clint hums in agreement. Phil had sent Clint through the vents in the Drake to keep an eye on their target. The mission was a success, but Clint had been jumpy for days after. Phil had put it down to a fan coming back on too soon, nearly slicing Clint's foot off. In retrospect, he should have known better and pushed Clint more about talking to him afterward but unfortunately, the threat of severed limbs was a far too common occurrence in their line of work, so he hadn't. Reflecting on the past three months, Phil realizes that Clint hasn't surprised him by suddenly lowering himself out of the ceiling in a corridor or into his office for a while. There have been fewer opportunities for Clint to crawl through HQ's vents since they started working with the Avengers, but they still spent time there. 

At least it makes a little more sense now that Clint hadn't told him. To have something so significant being taken from you—something that at times has been a major coping mechanism—would kick anyone off-kilter.

“Thought it was a fluke at first.” Clint sounds remarkably calm. “Because what are the chances, right? But then I got stuck in the elevator at the Tower one day because Tony was upgrading JARVIS or whatever the fuck he was doing, and there was suddenly no air to breathe in there.”

Phil relaxes the hold he has on Clint, just in case. 

“Hey, no, don't.” Clint pushes himself up. He places his hand in the middle of Phil's chest. “You don't have to—it's never—I've never felt confined with you.” He nods as Phil takes him more securely into his arms again. Playing with a button on Phil's shirt, he mumbles, “Feels safe.”

Phil is ridiculously glad for that. “So it's small spaces, mostly?”

“Yeah. I didn't think—the subway should have been fine. It was just two stops, and it's a quick ride, people getting off and on.” Clint sighs. “Except then...”

“It was a stupid idea.” Phil studies the breeze ruffling the tops of the bamboo back and forth.

“It wasn't. You didn't know. I like the subway.” Clint's fingers sneak under Phil's shirt and settle in the dip between his collar bones. “I was glad you were there.”

Phil's eyes are drawn back to Clint almost against his will. There's a frown on Clint's face, but also a warmth in the way he returns Phil's gaze. It feels undeserved. “I didn't know what to do.”

Clint's fingers push farther under Phil's shirt. “You did enough.”

“We need to figure out how I can help you.” Phil hopes Clint understands that he doesn't only mean during another panic attack (which seems likely to happen again), but for the rest of the time as well.

“I think we can cross deep breaths off that list.”

“It's standard procedure—” 

“Yeah, I know. I got some of that training, too, now that everyone trusts me to, you know, _lead_ teams on occasion.” He sounds dismissive, but Phil knows that he's proud of that promotion (it was basically a given after everything that happened last year). “Guess the standard procedures never apply to me.”

Phil smiles. “Well, that's certainly true.” He covers Clint's hand with his own. “We'll figure this out.”

Clint nods.

“Do you have any idea why? Why now? Why the confined spaces?”

Clint's eyes dart away. For a moment, he keeps oddly still. Then he withdraws his hand from Phil's shirt and lies down again, tucking his arms against his chest as he tries to press himself against Phil's side at the same time.

 _Oh, no._ Phil knows, then; knows why. Knows what and who. He gently shifts both of them until they're lying on their sides, facing each other. He keeps Clint as close as can. 

“I hope he rots in the deepest pit Asgardian hell has to offer,” Phil whispers.

“Pretty sure he does, according to Thor.”

Phil closes his eyes. He tries to let go of everything that is not them in this moment, Clint in his arms, the wind rustling the bamboo, the trickle of water on the other side of the roof.

“I don't know why now,” Clint begins. “I think that, maybe, before Chicago...”

Chicago had been their first big mission for SHIELD after Phil had officially returned to duty. “Yeah?”

“I think that I was too busy dealing with you being gone and then with you coming back.” The words come out in a rush, as if Clint has to push them out all at once or they won't come at all.

Phil helplessly grasps at Clint, pulls him closer still, until there's no space between them, and he squeezes his eyes shut to keep them from burning. Letting Clint think that he died is the most hurtful thing he's ever done to another person, let alone someone he loves so deeply. It's getting easier to live with that knowledge, but there are still moments when the immediate pain of that realization sledgehammers its way into Phil's mind, relentless and insurmountable. He's heard Clint say a thousand times that he understands and that the most important thing is that Phil is alive, but that only blunts the edge of the pain instead of taking it away.

“Phil, don't, it's okay.” Clint's thumb sweeps across Phil's cheek a before he kisses the corner of his eye. 

Phil swallows a few times before he trusts his voice. He blinks his eyes open. “I wish I could undo all of it. Make it go away.” It's so completely irrational that Phil is angry with himself for merely voicing that thought, but it's Clint, and Clint's life, _their life_ , and fuck it, they deserve better than this.

“I know. Me too.” 

Clint's hand sweeps down Phil's side and tugs at his shirt until it comes loose. It feels good to have Clint's fingers against his skin, moving up and down his back in strong and sure arcs. It makes the pain recede further until it's the dull presence Phil has grown used to these past few months.

“Can I tell you?” Clint asks with hesitation. “Can I tell you why?”

“Of course.” Phil doesn't even have to think about that answer. It surprises him that Clint knows why small spaces trigger him, but then he's fully aware of where his insomnia originates.

Clint's hand comes around to his front. “Is this okay?” he asks as his fingers climb upward to the center of Phil's chest.

“Yeah.” Phil feels Clint's palm settle over his scar. 

“You know that I saw everything when Loki was messing with my mind. Felt everything.”

Phil nods. 

“Being there but not being able to do anything...it was like being pushed into a corner. A corner that was endless and that became smaller and smaller and there was no way out of it.” Clint's fingers tighten against Phil's skin for a moment. “That's why.”

Phil doesn't know what to say. _That's horrible_ is both obvious and hollow, and _I'm sorry_ is equally inadequate. So he settles on the one emotion he can clearly define. “I hate what he did to you.” 

“To us,” Clint quietly amends.

“To us.”

“But we're both still here.” The pads of Clint's finger trace the edge of Phil's scar. “You're still here. With me.”

***

Their bedtime routine is particularly comforting this evening. It always helps Phil to unwind, but tonight, he cherishes it even more. Falling asleep hasn't been his problem; staying asleep is, especially after waking up from yet another dream in which he is sucked into a suffocating darkness. 

Clint is taking longer in the shower than usual. Perhaps he's trying to work some kinks out of muscles that have begun to hurt already, or maybe he needs some time to himself. Phil eyes the basket of clean laundry and decides he might as well get started on the socks. Clint hates folding socks for reasons that Phil never quite figured out, but if he takes care of the socks, Clint will do the rest. 

Once the socks are folded and put away in the drawer, Phil heads to the kitchen and pulls a bar of dark chocolate from their stash. He's always had a sweet tooth, and he won Clint over to the side of good chocolate after they moved in together. By now, the entire team is in various stages of addiction (Phil is convinced Tony is buying the chocolate in bulk).

He has just slid a finger under the wrapping to open it when Clint emerges from the bathroom, a cloud of humid air trailing behind him. He looks tired, but settled. His skin is flushed in places where he's scrubbed himself clean. Phil watches as Clint pulls on boxer briefs and, after some deliberation, one of Phil's old T-shirts.

Flopping down on the bed next to Phil, Clint eyes the chocolate and says, “I already brushed my teeth.”

Phil raises his eyebrows.

“I suppose I can brush them again.” Clint breaks off a piece. “Oh, you got out the good stuff.” 

Phil picks up a piece as well. “It seemed appropriate.”

They pick away at the bar, alternating in breaking off pieces. It's hard to believe that only a few hours ago, Clint was unresponsive in Phil's arms, trapped in his own thoughts. Seeing Clint be himself again gives Phil hope. It'll take a good long while to work through this—they'll have to figure out some early warning signs of Clint's panic attacks, ways to get Clint through them—but considering everything life has already thrown at them, they'll make it through this as well. And, Phil concedes, he should probably start seeing someone about his insomnia.

Clint smiles at Phil with mirth in his eyes. “Care to share your thoughts?”

Phil ducks his head. “It's nothing.”

Clint's smile widens. “Sap.” He leans closer to kiss Phil's cheek and mumble a quick _love you_ into his ear. 

“Yeah, yeah.” If Clint knew only half the things that cross Phil's mind on a regular basis, he'd never hear the end of it. 

He scoops up the remainder of the chocolate bar and pushes it onto the night stand, then picks up his book (and reading glasses, sigh) and knows Clint is reaching for his phone. They settle against the headboard; when Clint nudges Phil's arm, he obligingly lifts it so Clint can slide underneath. Phil glances at the screen of Clint's phone to see that he's shooting tiny animated turtles this week. The zeal with which Clint goes after the turtles brings a fond smile to Phil's face. With Clint's warm weight against this side, Phil's not entirely sure he will be able to focus on the history of the Lower East Side, so he flips to the glossy section in the middle of book and studies faces and buildings long gone. 

“Rain again,” Clint points out some time later.

Phil listens. City noises separate from the splashes of rain drops against the window. “Yeah.”

Clint's fingers briefly close over Phil's hand where it rests against his chest. Phil catches them and holds on.

(end.)


End file.
